


The Hardships of Classwork.

by Chiefjolras



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: College/6th form AU, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:17:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiefjolras/pseuds/Chiefjolras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>6th form AU.  John Watson, a new pupil at Sherlock's college, is unfortunately associated with the wrong people.  Sherlock makes a half-hearted attempt to fix that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hardships of Classwork.

**Author's Note:**

> This could be the start of a series... Comments appreciated.

A tall, dark haired boy stood outside the art block, leaning lazily against the wall as he watched the reception with keen, bright eyes. A boy had entered about ten minutes ago, a new boy, and he was due to come out soon. Fresh pupils usually only  
took about ten to fifteen minutes understanding how the college worked. It wasn't rocket science, after all. The boy, blonde and short, came with a scholarship. Chemistry, at a glance. He had hints of military upbringing- his stature, the way he spoke to people, his humour- and it was clearly from his father's side. He had a sister. One he used to be close to, but something had drawn them apart. What? He couldn't tell at that distance. He was going to attempt to learn the clarinet. Without much sucess though. His hands were more suited to a saxophone. His mouth, too. The boy emerged, smiling nervously, and his teacher led him away. Classes hadn't started yet, and they walked straight past the youngest Holmes boy, who turned with them, pale grey eyes following closely as the grey haired teacher led the textbook-laden student towards a group of boys who were laughing rowdily, casting entertained looks at the dark figure, who was, no doubt, the butt of their jokes. The boy, John Watson, was introduced, and was clearly quickly accepted into the group of friends, laughing and joking with them as the teacher left them to it.   
Superb. The Watson boy had been in the school for almost twenty minutes. The Holmes boy had been there for nearly three years, and John Watson already had more friends than he did.  
Typical.

Sherlock huffed, a small cloud of warm breath condensing in the wintry air around him, and he turned up his coat collar, striding towards the Science block, listening to the sound of rowdy laughter behind him, a new voice joining their midst.

~~

Sat in his usual place for maths, Sherlock gazed out the window, writing the word  
'Bored' in the back of his exercise book over and over without looking, his  
elaborately joined up handwriting nearly flowing off the page at points. The lesson  
hadn't even started yet.  
The clique of popular boys ambled in about ten minutes late, John Watson in the  
centre of the gang, and the only one who looked vaguely concerned about their timing.  
Well, he would be. His father was in the army. They took their places; most of the  
back row and the table behind Sherlock's, and the middle aged man began his lesson,  
which was Sherlock's cue to continue with his writing and staring out of the window.  
Aproximately half way through the lesson, he felt a small ball of squared paper hit  
his hands, which were pressed together, his fingertips brushing against his upper  
lip. He frowned, picking the paper up, and knowing who it was from by the  
handwriting.  
"Already memorised the syllabus, freak?"  
The pale boy rolled his eyes, pushing the paper aside, but he had barely steepled his  
fingers together when two more flew over, one landing on his book, the other on his  
lap.  
"Help me wierdo. At lunch. I'll give u my books after class." Sherlock  
frowned at the lack of educated grammar in the note, and discarded it, looking at the  
other, his frown deepening. He didn't recognise this writing.  
"They think I'm writing something mean. I'm John, hello!"  
He turned, regarding John with curiosity, then glaring at the rat-faced boy next to  
him. Anderson, leader of the 'popular' kids. His gaze fell back to John, reading  
him.  
He had a kind face, although he wasn't smiling now, and deep, chocolatey brown eyes.   
Smudges of blue biro ink on his cheek from where he had leant on his hand, and the  
same ink at the corner of his mouth. Clearly, maths wasn't one of his favourite  
subjects, even if he was good at it. Writing in biro rather than pencil, so he was  
confident in his abilities, but he'd been chewing his pen, so boredom. He could  
relate completely. His sixth form attire was crisply ironed, by him, judging by his  
fingertips, but his shirt wasn't a pure white, so it most likely had a previous  
owner. His father, judging by the creases down the sleeves, and the fact that John  
had reironed the creases in indicated that he was proud of him. But he was dead.   
All John's clothes were handed down, and his father wouldn't need them now. And he  
was in the army, as previously deduced...  
Sherlock turned back to his book, ripping out a page and scrawling a reply to John's  
note.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?  
-SH"

~~

For about a week after Sherlock's note, John Watson barely looked at the dark figure  
who already seemed to know him better than he knew himself. A boy in the upper 6th,  
a prefect named Greg, consoled him that he was like it to everyone, and that if he  
was ignored, he'd stop, but something nagged at John's mind. Something that he hated  
Sherlock for, but... He was oddly intruiged.

Sherlock didn't particularly mind being ignored by John. He was used to it, after  
all. But before the scholarship student had been introduced to the popular kids,  
there was a small part of him that had hoped- No, not really hoped, but wondered,  
certainly, whether he might actually find someone to engage in intelligent  
conversation with. But no. As per usual, he was left eating his meagre lunch in the  
corner, on his own.  
Every evening, he walked home alone, discarded even by his brother, who could have  
easily waited for him, since he only attended the neighbouring university. This  
particular Thursday evening, however, something was different. The gate was left  
slightly open. Mycroft would never do that... Far too much of a perfectionist for  
that...  
Sherlock slid through the gap in the gate, closing and bolting it behind him, and  
listened to the crunch of gravel as he took long, confident strides towards his front  
door. Again, the mat in front of the door was out of place. Kicked by a left foot  
and not corrected. He frowned, entering his home and immediately looking to the coat  
room. An extra blazer. Too small for Mycroft or himself. He would assume it was  
one of Mycroft's friends, but they were just as rare a breed as his own. Followers  
were more accurate. Yes, probably a follower. A small, left handed follower, with a  
military background and blonde hair.  
He shook his head, his long dark curls bouncing as he walked up the stairs three at a  
time, draping his own blazer over the banister. It would annoy Mycroft later, and  
he'd put it away, saving Sherlock the effort. He paused outside his door, though.   
The door was open. He always left it closed.  
"Mycroft, get out or I'll tell Mu-" He stopped in his tracks as he entered his room,  
face to face with a rather startled looking blonde boy, and his brother lounging on  
his bed, a cup of tea in his hand.  
"Afternoon, Sherlock. You're late. Caught up with Anderson again?"  
"John Watson." Sherlock said. The first words he'd said to the boy since, well...  
Ever.  
John shifted on his feet, taking a step back from Sherlock, "Yes, sorry..."  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, looking over him quickly, "Anderson sent you? If he has  
more homework for me, I'm not doing it. But you're not here with homework... You  
want to ask me something? About that time in maths?"  
John stood perfectly still, his heels together, and his mouth hanging open, "How did  
you-?"  
"Never mind Watson, you'll not understand." Mycroft said, getting up with an  
exaggerated groan, and strolling out, closing the door behind him. John swallowed,  
shaking his head to clear it.  
"Sorry... Yes, I wanted to ask how you knew? Greg told me you do it to everyone  
before they can get a chance to like you, which is why you're always..."  
"I knew because I notice things."  
"Er... Oh."  
"People can be incredibly revealing without meaning to be. It's rather annoying,  
actually, since I just state the obvious, and everyone gets offended... People can  
be so dull..." Sherlock trailed off, dropping his bag on the floor, in amongst the  
rest of his organised chaos.  
"Well... It was Afghanistan, if you still wanted to know... Last October."  
"Thought so, I just wasn't sure enough to say. So how's your sister?"  
"My sis-? I never said anything about her..."  
"I know, but you're borrowing her phone, aren't you? You dropped yours? And you  
didn't look as smart as you should on your first day, so clearly someone, an older  
sister, in your case, told you what not to do. She was popular too, wasn't she?"  
"That's.... That's amazing..."  
Sherlock frowned, picking up his violin from its case and plucking a quick D minor  
scale. "That's not what everybody else said... But then, nobody else got past more  
than a few sentances without telling me to piss off..."

John couldn't be sure, but there may or may not have been a small smile of  
satisfaction tugging at the corners of Sherlock's mouth as he played a few bars of  
music. It could have been because he'd got everything he'd said about John Watson  
right.  
More likely, the fact that he had got through a whole conversation, as opposed to the  
usual three sentances.

~~

And, for the first time in his life, Sherlock thinks, he has sat next to someone at  
lunch voluntarily.

He and John don't get on all the time, and more often than not, the latter resorts to  
sitting with Anderson and his cronies, but he can never stay angry for long. Not  
when he looks over and catches the grey eyes swiftly dart back to his book, picking  
at the dull sandwich in front of him.

They remain this way for some time. A tenuous friendship, dependant on John Watson's  
patience with Sherlock's "smartassery", as he puts it. And, of course, his tolerance  
at being called "idiot".

~~~

Sherlock sat at the side of the pool, his elbows resting on his knees, with his  
fingers steepled beneath his chin. Swimming. Once a week. He'd managed to get out  
of the last three lessons, but the teacher wouldn't have it this time. The other  
students filed slowly into the pool, filling up the wooden benches. He glanced over  
to John, and quickly back again. With Anderson. Typical.  
A voice came from the deep end of the pool, a female's voice that Sherlock knew, even  
with the echo, belonged to Mrs West. With an audible groan, everyone stood up and  
slid into the cold water, Sherlock included. A wall of water hit the side of his  
face, plastering his dark curls to his face. He turned, looking to where the splash  
had come from.  
"Sorry freak!" A girl laughed, extracting a fit of giggles from the crowd  
surrounding Sally Donovan.  
Sherlock let out a slow breath, and faced the wall again, looking up at Mrs West.   
Although glaring would be the more accurate word. The class set off in their various  
pointless exercises, finishing (finally) with relay races along the length of the  
pool. West split them into 'fair and even' teams, which somehow managed to land  
Sherlock with Anderson, Donovan, and another boy, going by the name of Carl Powers.  
The whistle blew, and Anderson pushed away from the wall, swimming with strong  
strokes towards Carl, who would be taking over. The rest of the class had erupted  
into loud shouts and cheers, encouraging their team mates while Sherlock just  
watched, trying not to get splashed too much. Anderson reached the end, and Carl  
pushed off underwater. He was a regular swimmer, about to compete at the weekend, if  
the assemblies were to be believed. Sherlock watched, waiting for his turn so he  
could get it over with. It's not that he was bad at swimming, per say, he just  
despised it.  
Waiting.  
Longer than was necessary.  
All the other teams had finished, and he and Sally were still waiting for their  
turn.  
Finally, as the ripples settled, all eyes settled on a figure floating face down in  
the centre, exactly midway between Sherlock and Sally. One of the girls screamed,  
and Sherlock waded forwards at exactly the same time as John started swimming. John,  
obviously, reached the body first, and rolled Carl over, checking his pulse.  
"Shit..."  
Sherlock's frown deepened as he reached Carl, the boy's eyes wide open.  
"He must have had a fit."  
John looked to Sherlock, unable to tell if it was the lighting in the pool that made  
him appear even paler, or if it was the fact that one of his classmates had just  
died. "How do you know?"  
The taller boy shot him a look, as if to say 'Isn't it obvious?' and when John's  
expression remained clueless, he let out an exaggerated sigh.  
"His fists are clenched. They wouldn't be like that from swimming. So he must have  
been in pain. His eyes are open, too, which indicate shock." He explained, the words  
rolling from his tongue almost before he could think them, "The only explanation of  
all the facts is a fit, and drowned."  
John stared, "That's incredible..." He breathed, oblivious to Mrs West who'd just  
dived in and was dragging Carl out of the pool.  
Sherlock looked to the boy in shock, "Really?"  
"Well, yeah."  
"Er... Thanks."

The police arrived in less than five minutes, allowing the majoity of the class to  
move to their next lessons in a state of shock. Sherlock and John, however, got  
changed, but didn't leave the pool. Sherlock spent a few moments in the changing  
rooms after John had left to talk to Mrs West, but he emerged a few minutes later,  
walking purposefully over to the two of them, plus the corpse.  
"Where are his shoes?" He asked, completely irrespective of the state their teacher  
was in.  
"They're- His what?"  
"His shoes, John. Where are they? He didn't come to swimming barefoot."  
"Sherlock, what the hell does that matter?! He's just died! Maybe someone cleared  
his stuff up?"  
"The rest of his clothes are there, why aren't his shoes?"  
"Who cares?!"  
Sherlock glared, turning to speak to the police officer who just came in, but was  
brushed aside with a quick, "It's alright, kiddo. You're bound to be in shock if  
you're friend's just died." A kind faced paramedic draped a bright orange blanket  
over his shoulders, which Sherlock hastily pulled off, only to have it replaced.   
After another attempt, he walked back over to John and the policeman with the blanket  
over his shoulders.  
"They keep putting this blanket on me."  
"It's for shock, Sherlock."  
"I'm not in shock! I want them to listen!"  
John shrugged, putting a hand between his shoulderblades and pushing him away from  
Carl's body and out of the pool. "Maybe they want to take pictures."


End file.
